


trouble, trouble (i want you to)

by escherzo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (mentioned that it occurs in-text but not the details), Anal Sex, Biting, CNC scenario includes the following:, Consensual Non-Consent, Impregnation Kink, M/M, Marking, Mind the Tags, No Apocalypse, Off-Screen Negotiation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Size Difference, Size Kink, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Vaginal Sex, mild bit of virginity kink also
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29885640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: In precisely sixteen minutes, it will start to storm, Jon Knows. He can feel the potential of it vibrating through the air. Petrichor seeping in through the cracks in the windows, making his nose tingle with it, the clouds darkening with each passing moment. And as the storm begins, instead of Martin coming back through the door, a “stranger” will knock on the door, desperate to escape the pounding rain.He will be welcomed in. As for what happens after that--Jon tries not to squirm as he watches Martin linger in the doorway, thinking of the solidity of him. The strength. How easily this stranger will be able to hold him down.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 32
Kudos: 168





	trouble, trouble (i want you to)

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to v and beary for talking out this scenario with me ♥ as mentioned in the tags the actual negotiation of the scene happens offscreen and it's just mentioned that it occurs. re: the impreg, implied that outside of the scene they are actually trying to get pregnant, if that's a specific squick for you. words used for jon are chest/cock/cunt.
> 
> as usual, this is kink spaghetti tossed at the wall to see what sticks.

“I won't be gone long,” Martin says, a smile to his voice as he leans down and kisses Jon softly, a hand braced on the old, creaking bed. Just a light press of his lips. The sort of quick peck he gives Jon first thing in the morning, or when he comes in from chopping wood or the trips down into the village; if it wasn't for the gleam in his eye, Jon could almost pretend this is just another errand. It isn't. Won't be. 

“Good,” Jon says, stretching out in bed with a sigh, the sheets shifting underneath him. He finds himself smiling too. “Make sure you aren't.” 

They have talked this through in a hundred different ways in the past few weeks, little interludes between chores and repairs and the small, slow pieces of assembling a life together in this little stone house. Words passed back and forth huddled together in front of a crackling fire that leave them both flushed and squirming. Under the cover of night, the two of them shyly feeling out “can I--” and “I want to--” as they curl against each other like interlocking pieces, Martin's arm slung over Jon's waist and his hot, tickling breath at the back of his neck. 

In precisely sixteen minutes, it will start to storm, Jon Knows. He can feel the potential of it vibrating through the air. Petrichor seeping in through the cracks in the windows, making his nose tingle with it, the clouds darkening with each passing moment. And as the storm begins, instead of Martin coming back through the door, a stranger will knock on the door, desperate to escape the pounding rain. 

He will be welcomed in. As for what happens after that--

Jon tries not to squirm as he watches Martin linger in the doorway, thinking of the solidity of him. The strength. How easily this stranger will be able to hold him down even as he kicks and struggles. 

“No,” he mouths, testing the word in advance. 

He finds he likes it. 

*

There is a knock at the door, seventeen minutes and thirty two seconds later, and Jon pushes himself up and out of bed with a groan to go and answer it, his bare feet padding along the cold wooden floor. The chill of the storm has begun to creep in, and he shivers as he opens the door and the wind snakes in underneath his threadbare joggers and old, over-sized shirt. Pyjamas he won't mind losing. 

The man at the door is half-drenched, looking down at Jon with a sheepish expression as he tries to brush water out of his hair even as more falls from the sky to worsen it. He's big, broader than Jon and over a head taller than him, with damp, curling ginger hair and big gray-blue eyes with flecks of brown, and his round glasses have droplets of water rolling down them. 

“Sorry,” Martin says, scratching at the back of his neck and looking away from Jon with a little smile on his face. “I just—I needed to get out of the storm and you were the first place I saw. I hope it's not too much trouble.” 

“Oh,” Jon says, blinking at him. “Of course not. Come in.” He steps back and lets Martin in, trying to hide a smile as Martin has to duck his head at the doorway, and reaches for one of the dish towels hanging off the refrigerator door to hand to Martin so that he can dry his glasses. Martin looks like a mess already. Barely two minutes in the storm and his coat and hair are already soaking.

“Thanks,” Martin says with a grateful sigh as he wipes his glasses clear of moisture, and when he starts shrugging out of his coat Jon holds out a hand for it entirely on reflex. Underneath, he has a soft jumper in light blue, and the first thing that springs to Jon's mind is “unthreatening.” Big, but in a way that looks soft rather than menacing. He smiles at Jon and his whole face lights up with it. 

“Do you want a cup of tea?” Jon asks after he's gotten Martin's coat hung up, directing Martin to the couch so he can settle him in in front of the fire to dry off. It's easier to keep his hands busy. 

“Yes please,” Martin says, the picture of politeness, and he settles down onto the couch with a heaving sigh. “I, um, I was just taking a walk up from the village – I like going out into the fields a little ways to look at the cows?” He smiles again, a little shy. “I know, maybe that's--silly. But I realized I was out too far when the storm started coming on and all, and your house's the only one out here. Is it, is it just you here?” 

“Yes,” Jon says, turning away from Martin for a moment to go put the kettle on and get out two mugs. “I like the quiet, although it does get a bit... isolated at times. Still, I'm hardly going to complain about having no neighbors to deal with.”

“No one around at all?” Martin says, in a tone Jon can't quite read. “That's... huh, that's interesting.” 

“Mm,” Jon agrees. He goes through the motions of making tea mechanically, measuring out a careful spoonful of sugar and a splash of milk into his cup. “Sugar?” 

“Two sugars and a bit of milk,” Martin says, looking over the back of the couch at him. “Thanks. I really appreciate it, I'd have been _soaked_ if not for you. I didn't think it was going to come on so fast.”

Jon comes to the couch with both mugs in hand and Martin takes the cup that he's offered with a grateful smile, wrapping his hands around it for warmth, and Jon settles in by his side, close enough that their thighs touch. “So,” Martin says, “what's your name?”

“Jonathan,” Jon says. “Jon.” He takes a long sip of his own tea, ignoring the way it still burns against his tongue. “And you are--”

“Martin,” Martin says, and he sets his mug down for a moment to wipe more condensation off his glasses. “I really appreciate it, again. I know it must be weird to have a stranger show up at your door in the middle of the day.”

“A bit,” Jon says, giving Martin a small smile, and they go back and forth like this for a while, light chatter, keeping things easy. Jon finds himself relaxing into it. And then, Martin sets his mug down onto the floor beside the couch with a decisive clunk and turns to Jon with an entirely different look in his eyes. 

“I should thank you,” Martin says. “Properly.” 

Jon sets his mug down too, his heart already starting to pound. “You don't have to,” he says. 

“I want to.” Martin reaches out and settles one big, warm hand onto Jon's thigh, and his expression has turned to one Jon cannot read at all. Jon looks down at his thigh and then back up at Martin.

“What are you doing?” Jon asks, a quaver to his voice as he tries to shift away from the touch and Martin's hand tightens on his thigh. 

“Thanking you,” Martin says, and his hand slides higher, his knuckles brushing against Jon's groin, and Jon starts to shift away with more purpose.

“I don't want—” Jon begins, and he makes to get up entirely, trying to push himself up and off the couch. Martin looks at him and smiles, and this time, there is nothing kind or easy to his smile at all. 

“Let me thank you,” Martin repeats. His nails dig into the soft skin of Jon's inner thigh, hard enough that he can feel the bite of it. He can already imagine the marks that will be left behind. The little red indentations. “Don't be ungrateful.”

“Stop it,” Jon says, reaching out like he means to hit Martin, and Martin's other hand grabs his wrist in an iron grip. He pins Jon's wrist to the couch, looming over him, and the hand on Jon's thigh slides higher to cup his cock through the thin joggers. Martin is all around him. Large and imposing, keeping him rooted to the spot as Martin slowly, purposefully rubs at his cock through clothing, and Jon barely bites back a noise at the movement. 

“You said you lived alone,” Martin says, and leans in to kiss him. Jon tries to bite at his lips, and Martin's hand tightens on his wrist like a threat, a low growl in the back of his throat, and Jon is all at once very aware of just how much bigger Martin is than him. How little power he has in the situation. He opens his mouth to Martin's tongue with an unwilling little whimper as Martin's hand pushes under the waistband of his joggers. “No one around for miles.” 

“Mph,” Jon protests as Martin's mouth descends upon his again, trying to squirm away from Martin's touch but only succeeding at pushing up harder into it. His whole body burns with it. He tries to get the words out, tries to protest, _when I said I lived alone that wasn't an invitation_ , but Martin has taken it as one and Martin is not letting him go.

“So, so there's no one to hear you, right?” Martin says, smiling a little, and Jon's blood goes cold even as his face goes red. “Even if you scream.” 

He slides his hand out of Jon's joggers long enough to grab his other wrist and _pull_ , dragging Jon up to his feet and laughing a little as Jon stumbles. His smile has gone soft and easy, like the gentle one when he answered the door and somehow so much worse for it. “Where's your bedroom?” Martin asks, and Jon tries to fight harder against the grip. He kicks out, his foot connecting with Martin's shin, and Martin winces, hesitates a little, but still keeps his iron grip.

“I'm not telling _you_ ,” Jon snaps, and he can feel Martin's nails dig into the thin skin of his wrist in response. He closes his eyes for a moment. Opens them again, trying for something wide-eyed and pleading, something gentler. “Please. You don't have to do this.”

“No,” Martin agrees, still smiling. “But I want to, so--” When he pulls Jon along, all Jon can do is try to keep his feet moving so he doesn't fall outright, completely unable to do anything but follow. Halfway down the hallway, he stops to pin Jon against the wall, taking a long, lingering moment with one hand at Jon's throat and one shoving up and under his shirt to fondle him as Jon struggles against him, so conscious of the power in the hand at his throat. “Sorry, couldn't resist.”

“Please,” Jon repeats, taking a shaky breath, and Martin takes his hand out from under Jon's shirt, lets him think for a wild moment that he's gotten through, that this is going to _stop_ , and then Martin drags him the rest of the way to the bedroom. The door is open and the bed is bathed in gentle light from the old oil lamp on the bedside table, and Martin tosses him onto the bed like he weighs absolutely nothing. Jon tries to push himself back up to sitting as soon as he lands, but the wind is knocked out of him, and he has to take a moment to gasp for breath. Too long. Martin has already started to strip out of his clothes, and as Jon makes to get back up off the bed, taking the moment where Martin's jumper is over his head as his opening to run, he realizes too late that he's miscalculated. Martin's grip on his wrist from behind comes from nowhere. 

“Don't do that,” Martin says, and his voice drops deeper, gentler. “It's okay. You'll like it, I promise. I told you, I wanted to thank you.” 

“I don't _want_ it,” Jon says, and feels petulant for it, even to his own ears, and when Martin drags him back to the bed and presses him face-down on it, a hand to the back of his neck tightening like a threat, he understands and lets himself go still. Just for a moment. If he makes Martin think he's surrendered, maybe he'll get another opening.

When he turns back around, Martin has stripped out of his trousers too, down to only his pants, his miles of soft, warm skin on display in the low light, and Jon tries not to look at the way he's already hard. How _big_ he looks. The threat of that. Tries not to think about how slick he is between his own legs, or the bruises already left behind on his wrists and thighs that make the ache in him worse.

“You can let me go,” Jon says, scooting backwards until his back is against the headboard. “You, I—you really don't have to do this. There are other ways to thank me.” 

“I know,” Martin says, as though that's all there is to it, and then he is on Jon. Jon doesn't get a moment to breathe, to think – all at once his clothes are being stripped from him, so fast he can hear the fabric rip, and he tries to fight, tries to kick out, clawing at any part of Martin he can reach—his arms, his chest, his face, but Martin catches him just as his fingernails are about to sink into Martin's cheek and holds his wrists in two tight hands.

“Don't,” Martin says, low and simple, and pins Jon to the bed with the bulk of him, leaning down to bite his neck. He sinks his teeth in deep, so deep he could nearly draw blood, and Jon cries out with the pain of it, the way it makes all of his nerve endings skitter. “If you fight it'll get worse.” 

He bites Jon again and again, until Jon is shaking with it, overstimulated and drunk on the feeling, Knowing there are vibrant red marks left behind tinted with faint trails of blood. Martin's body is so solid against Jon's, and Jon tries to cling to the one bit of his clothing he has left with both hands, but when Martin covers Jon's hands with his own and _yanks_ Jon can do nothing but let it happen, his own strength giving out. 

“I've--” Jon starts, because he only has this one last card left to play, and he does not think it will make a difference, but he has to try. “I've never done this before.” He looks up at Martin with big, pleading eyes, trying to ignore the way his heart is pounding.

“Huh, really?” Martin asks, smiling down at him, and fits a hand between his legs like it's nothing, stroking over the core of him to gather slickness before fitting his thumb against Jon's cock and rubbing hard. “Your body already knows what to do.” 

“I—please, stop,” Jon begs, even as his hips push up in the the movement. Even as he has to bite back the moan that wants to crawl out of his throat. “Please just stop.” 

“Look, see, you're already wet,” Martin says, rubbing at him harder, his fingers fitting to either side of Jon's cock and starting to jerk it off careful and slow, every movement making the heat in Jon's gut tighten harder until it feels like his whole body is burning with it. He fails to bite back a moan when Martin moves his fingers just right, and Martin's eyes light up. 

“See, you've got it,” Martin says. “I'll be a lot to take, but I think you can do it. You seem like you'll be a proper slut when I get a cock in you.” His own face goes pink at the words, but he doesn't stop the movement of his fingers. 

“I don't want it,” Jon says, closing his eyes and repeating it over and over like a mantra. “I don't—I can't--” He tries to reach for Martin's hands, batting at them as though he could stop them. As though he isn't just ineffectually struggling against someone so much stronger than him that it hardly makes a difference 

“Can't what?” Martin asks, pinning Jon's wrists together with one hand, just above his belly, as the fingers of his other hand continue to work Jon over. Jon squirms and tries to fight the way the pressure builds in his belly, tries to do anything but give into this. 

“I--” Jon chokes out, half a whimper, “what are you _doing_ to me?” 

“ _Oh,_ ,” Martin says, delighted. “You really _haven't_ done this before? Not even to yourself?”

“It's—it's never worked right,” Jon says, closing his eyes and trying to ignore the way his own face is starting to flush with shame. “I—I can't. Please.” 

Martin does not let up. His long, clever fingers rub at Jon's cock until the heat in Jon builds to a peak and spills over, Jon crying out and clenching his hands into fists hard enough that the nails dig into his own palms, his hips shuddering against Martin's hand. It feels so good. He doesn't want it. 

For a moment, Martin looks almost distracted as he watches the way Jon's chest heaves, eyes following the spreading flush to his chest. The grip on his wrists is relaxed, and it's that that makes Jon try one last ditch effort to escape. Tries to wrench himself hard to the side so that he can run. There is a storm outside and he is naked – there is nowhere to go, and Martin is almost certainly faster than him, but he has to try. 

He doesn't get far. Gets partway off the bed before Martin wraps an arm around his middle and bodily hauls him back onto it. There is something wild and fierce in his eyes, and he puts a hand to Jon's throat again. 

“Stop _doing_ that,” Martin says, low and quiet, something very dangerous in his tone, and his hand squeezes, just for a moment. Jon understands the threat in this. “Roll over.” 

Jon obeys, this once. He still wants to fight. To figure out a way _out_ of this, to make Martin stop. He just needs to find what the right words are, the right moment for Martin to let his guard down. Martin rubs his cock against the back of Jon's thighs, thick and hard and threatening, leaving slick trails of precome behind, and Jon shudders, feeling the weight of it against him, and when Martin tells him to spread his legs, his hand wrapped around the back of Jon's neck, Jon obeys, shivering. It is only when Martin presses forward to tease the head of his cock at Jon's cunt that his brain catches up properly. 

“Please, don't, don't, I--” Jon closes his eyes, fingers curling in the sheets so hard he's half-afraid he might rip them. “Not there. Please.” 

“Afraid of me knocking you up?” Martin asks, pleasant as anything, and Jon nods, his face shamefully red and a pulse of heat going through him at the thought that he tries to tamp down. “I'm going to do it unless you give me another option, you know. And besides—you'd look so good like that, with my come in you.” He strokes his fingers along the flat plane of Jon's belly, cupping it like he can already feel the way it would swell. 

“You can--” Jon squeezes his eyes shut tighter. “You can have my arse, if you don't. I, I won't fight.” He squirms, pressing his thighs together, feeling the way the bed dips as Martin climbs off it to rifle through his pockets. 

Jon can hear the quiet snick of a cap opening, and all at once he feels cool, smooth plastic pressed against his hole and then a spreading, colder slickness straight into him that makes him shudder. 

“Just your arse, then. I'll stop after that, I promise,” Martin says. “And don't worry, you'll like it.” Martin teases at his hole with a fingertip, not quite pressing in yet, just threatening, letting Jon feel how big it is against him. “Have you ever done this?” 

“No,” Jon says, and it's wrenched out of him. The feeling of Martin's finger slowly circling his hole makes him whimper, and he grits his teeth against the sound. It feels good. He wishes it didn't. Doesn't _want_ to like this, but he has no choice as Martin breaches him him slow and inexorable, his other hand gripping Jon's hip hard, giving him no room to do anything but close his eyes and take it. Martin's hand tightens threateningly on his hip as he tries to clench around it, tries to keep it out, and he forces himself to relax. To take the finger he is unwillingly being fed and let it into himself. It feels huge in him. The stretch stings, even as something underneath it feels so unwillingly good that he can't help the soft, helpless whimper he lets out. His eyes are beginning to bead with faint tears. 

“Please take it out,” he begs, and Martin hushes him, leaning down to kiss the sweat-slicked curve of his spine before slowly starting to work it in and out. He does it like he has all the time in the world to, a slow, methodical in and out, and Jon can feel his body loosening up around it. The pressure is overwhelming, and without even meaning to, he finds himself pushing back on it. Chasing the feeling of it as Martins finger sinks deep. He forces his hips to still, his face flaming. 

“See, you're starting to like it,” Martin says, and presses back in with a second finger tucked in alongside the first. “I knew you would.” He sounds _so_ pleased with himself, and with two fingers, the feeling intensifies – every time Martin pushes his fingers in deep and curls them, Jon can feel a shock go through his body, liquid heat so strong it drives all other thoughts out of his head for a brief second, and it is all he can do to not beg for _more_ even as he continues to chant, under his breath, “stop, stop, _please_ stop.” 

“Don't worry, I'll give you more,” Martin says, pulling back from him again, just for a second. Jon hears the faint crinkle of a wrapper as Martin unwraps the condom and slides it onto himself. Martin came prepared. Came up to this cabin with lube and a condom in his pocket like he knew exactly what he would find there, and Jon closes his eyes and breathes out hard. And then Jon can feel the head of Martin's cock kiss his reddened, sore hole. It feels so much bigger than his fingers. So much more than he can take. Jon opens his mouth to protest, to say he can't possibly do this, to beg Martin to stop again, but he doesn't have a choice. Martin lines himself up and starts to press in, both hands going to Jon's hips to keep him steady and pinned in place, and Jon cries out as it starts to properly breach him. 

It hurts, a dull, low ache, but beyond that, the pressure lights his whole body up, and he can feel himself getting wetter. Feel the way his whole body pulses with the feeling of it. He tries to close his eyes and not press back into it. It feels so good. He doesn't want it to feel good. “Please,” he begs. “Please take it out. Please, just _stop_.” 

“It's okay,” Martin says, leaning over Jon to softly kiss the back of his neck, and he sinks in a little more at the movement, making the breath leave Jon's lungs in a hiss. “Just a little more. You've almost taken it all.” 

And take it all Jon has to. He's pinned, Martin's whole body weight blanketing him as he pushes in the rest of the way and keeps Jon pinned on his cock. Martin is so solid inside him, an unyielding weight, and Jon tries to squirm ineffectually on his cock, clenching around it and then shuddering at how much bigger that makes it feel. Martin gives him a moment to get used to it, as though this is something he could get _used_ to, Martin's cock forced somewhere nothing should be, and Jon's heart pounds so hard he nearly feels sick with it. His whole body is alight with it, even as he chants “no, no, no” with every movement of Martin's hips as Martin slowly begins to work his cock in and out of Jon. 

“You've got it,” Martin says softly, gently, in contrast to the harsh movements of his hips, and he kisses Jon's shoulder. Almost too affectionate; part of Jon wants to remind him to stay in character, but then Martin thrusts forward harshly again and a loud moan is ripped out of Jon. 

“Oh, you _do_ like it,” Martin says, soft and wondering, and thrusts in hard again, and the _no, I don't_ Jon is trying to say turns into another moan, and from there it is all he can do to hold onto the sheets as he's railed within an inch of his life, Martin holding him down with his whole body weight and pressing bruising kisses all over his body as his cock sinks deep into Jon over and over again. All Jon can do is shake and moan, holding on desperately to the sheets. 

“Why--” he tries, and Martin reaches out to fit a hand to the back of his neck before shoving his face down into the pillows. Jon bites hard at the pillow to keep his noises in, overcome with sensation. It feels so good. He's so wet, and he might be able to come just like this, clenching down on Martin's cock in him as Martin's thrusts slow, deepen, his spine arching obscenely as he starts to push back into it. 

“There you go,” Martin says, leaving a deep, red mark on the side of Jon's neck with teeth and tongue. Marking him. “Tell me you like it.” 

“I _don't_ ,” Jon protests, and as he turns his head to look at Martin again he can feel the way the pillow has gone damp with his tears. He sniffles, trying to hold them in, but he can't stop them from falling, and he can feel the way Martin's cock twitches inside him at the sight. 

“You look so good like this,” Martin says, slowing down further and watching as his cock slowly slides in and out of Jon's body, his hand coming around to cup Jon's abdomen. “Feel this.” He drags Jon's hand to join his and Jon closes his eyes as he can fee the slight distortion under his skin, the way that Martin's cock is reshaping his body to fit it. The bulge that shifts every time Martin presses in deep. 

“I don't want to,” Jon says, shaking his head, and Martin thrusts in harder, a quick snap of his hips, and when he cries out, he knows Martin can tell it's not pain. 

“Tell me you like it,” Martin says again, softer this time, and Jon is so close, it will take almost nothing for Martin to push him over the edge like this, just a touch, but he realizes all at once that until he says it Martin will not touch him. 

“I like it,” Jon says, his voice cracking. “I, I like it.” He sniffles. 

“What do you like?” Martin prompts. 

“I like you fucking my arse,” Jon says, his eyes full of tears, and finally, Martin reaches down to rub hard at his cock as he thrusts in again, and that's all it takes, quick, firm motions, and Jon is gone, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching hard around Martin as it pulses through him. Martin laughs a little, delighted, and Jon keeps his eyes closed, feeling the way Martin's thrusts slow. Maybe he'll stop now. He promised that if Jon let him fuck his arse that he would stop. 

When he pulls out, Jon nearly sobs with relief and loss, but then he can hear the faint sound of rustling. The sound of something hitting the floor. And then Martin tilts his hips up and slides into his cunt, so fast he doesn't have time to do anything but cry out in shock as he's abruptly filled, doesn't have the time to say _please, no, not there_. He whimpers. 

“It's alright,” Martin says, rubbing a soothing hand over his belly. “I know you need it. It's okay. This is what a slut like you is for.” 

“Please,” Jon says, with what's left of his voice. He tries to shift forward, tries to get Martin _out_ , but Martin pulls him back onto his cock like he weighs nothing. “Don't—.” He can feel that Martin is close, feel the stutter of his hips. “Please pull out.” _Please don't knock me up_ , he thinks, and clenches around Martin as heat goes through him at the thought. 

“You'll look so good when it takes,” Martin says, soft and crooning in his ear. “I know you will. Just let it happen.” 

Jon shakes his head hard, tears flowing more freely from his eyes. “No, _no_ ,” he moans, still struggling against the cock sunk deep inside him, but Martin picks up his pace again as he holds Jon in place, and when Martin sucks in a quick breath and presses _deep_ Jon can feel him come inside, feel the spreading warmth of it and the way Martin's cock twitches inside him after. He closes his eyes, taking in a deep, shuddering breath, and then clicks his fingers, not sure his voice will hold up. 

“Good?” Martin asks, the pretense slipping away and Jon nods, too far gone for words. Martin rests a gentle hand on his hip to steady him as he slowly pulls out. He's left such a mess behind. Filled Jon up so thoroughly. Jon rolls onto his back as soon as Martin is out of him and reaches for one of the pillows behind them, tucking it under his hips to keep them tilted up. 

“ _Do_ you think it'll take?” Martin asks, curling up around Jon and stroking a slow, soothing hand back and forth on his belly. He has a small, private smile on his face, and when he looks at Jon there's such love in his eyes that Jon forgets entirely to breathe for a moment. 

“I hope so,” Jon says softly, adjusting the pillow. He's an absolute mess, and he desperately needs a shower and to sleep, but for a while, he wants to just luxuriate in this, a sweaty, fucked-open mess, looking down at the bruises on his hips even as they start to fade away. “You were good.” 

“Thanks,” Martin says, his face very pink. “I wasn't sure I was going to be able to _say_ half of that stuff until it was already out of my mouth.” 

“What,” Jon says, his smile going coy, “you _don't_ normally want to tell me that it's 'what a slut like me is for'?” 

“God,” Martin says, burying his face in his hands, his face going pinker still. “I still can't believe I did that.” 

“I did like it,” Jon reminds him, leaning over to kiss the side of his neck. “Did—you did too, right?” 

Martin nods, curling in closer to Jon. “I'm glad we don't have neighbors right about now, but—yeah. You were. God, the _noises_ you made. Oh! I should—I should get us some water. Do you want to get a shower too, or--” 

“Water would be good,” Jon says, licking dry lips. “I'll... wait on the shower a moment.” He gives a meaningful look down at himself, at the pillow tucked under his hips to keep them tilted up. To keep Martin's come in until it takes. 

“Right,” Martin says, and he leans in to kiss Jon, soft and slow, before ducking down to press another kiss to Jon's belly before he goes. “For good luck.” 

“I don't think that's how it works--” 

“Oh, don't start,” Martin says, laughing, and goes to get the two of them a glass of water. 


End file.
